The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (45 page)

The crocodiles rapidly tore apart his lifeless corpse. Their hunger knew nothing of his abominations.

Two of the Sankara Stones hit the shallow water, sank into the murky current, and were carried downriver . . . somewhere.

And then there was one.

Indy put the last Sankara Stone, now dark again, into his pocket. He climbed up the hanging bridge to the top, where he was pulled over the edge by Willie, Shorty, and Blumburtt.

Across the gorge, more British troops emerged from the mine tunnels to subdue the remaining Thuggee guards on that side. At their rear, the young Maharajah came out with the soldiers. He saw Short Round, standing with Indy; he bowed from across the chasm, to thank Shorty for saving him from the black nightmares of his own soul.

Short Round waved his cap at the Maharajah, returning the salute in thanks for bringing back the troops. The prince was obviously a born relief pitcher.

Willie stood at the lip of the gorge, looking down into the river far below. “I guess Mola Ram got what he wanted.”

“Not quite,” said Indy. He pulled the coveted object out of his pocket. “The last Sankara Stone.”

Willie took it carefully from Indiana. She held it up to the sun. It sparkled and flashed from deep within its core, like a thing of the earth, with a secret heart.

For just a moment, they all shared its secret.

They rested a few days at the palace. The army collected many of the children, still hiding in the woods nearby, and fed them and tended their injuries. When all were strong enough to travel, Blumburtt sent a small contingent of soldiers, with Willie, Indy, and Shorty, to take the children home.

Short Round felt like King of the Children. He spent his time with them being fatherly, instructive, responsible.

He taught them never to steal, as Mola Ram had stolen them. (Except to steal bases.)

He instructed them to keep the Stars of Happiness, of Dignities, and of Longevity always near their hearts.

He taught them how to hit and pitch—with sticks and fruits.

He taught them how to distinguish mummies from draculas, and how to flip a coin, and how to look tough, but still be nice.

He sent them to Willie for tutorials in how to cloud men’s minds.

He taught them the names of all the important deities, who had always responded to his prayers—though by this time, Short Round had made so many promises to so many gods, he had his doubt about any of them answering him in the future.

But Indy had answered; Indy was here. And Indy was still taking him to America.

Willie spent the time in a daze. She’d never been through anything like this before. Now that it was over, she couldn’t quite believe it was over. She kept touching trees, touching Short Round, touching Indy, to make sure that it was real, that it wasn’t a dream. It was still a little hard to tell.

Indy was somewhat disgruntled about losing two of the Sankara Stones—he’d held them in his hands!—but he had one. This one was his, for the time being. Besides, the children were free; that was the main thing. And the Thuggee were once again extinct.

Two days later, the troops dropped off one bunch of kids outside Mayapore village, then went on to escort the remainder to other outlying towns.

Indiana and his companions walked back down the dirt road into Mayapore, followed by the village’s youngsters. They were astonished to view the landscape: what had been barren countryside was being reborn.

Trees budded beside streams that flowed clear and vital. Flowers were trying to bloom; the hills had turned from brown to green. Peasants were tilling the fields.

In the village itself, people were rebuilding their primitive dwellings. Fine crafts hung from the walls; the villagers worked on the details of their lives with a vigor that spread to all the land.

Shouts of joy arose as the peasants saw their own returning. They dropped what they were doing and ran out to meet the children, who rushed on ahead to this jubilant reunion.

There were tears, and laughter, and all manner of grateful tidings. The shaman approached Indiana, touched his fingers to his forehead, bowed. The three travelers returned his greeting.

He was profoundly moved as he spoke to Indy. “We know you are coming back”—he indicated the surrounding landscape—“when life returns to our village.”

Willie nodded. “I’ve never seen a miracle before.” But this was a miracle, plain and simple. It made her grin brightly. Miracles not only
could
happen; they sometimes
did.

The shaman smiled. “Now you see the magic of the ‘rock’ you bring back.”

Indy took the stone from his pocket, unwrapped it from the bit of Sankara cloth he still had. “Yes, I’ve seen its power.”

The shaman reverently took the stone from Indy, bowed to them again; then walked, with the other elders, to the sacred shrine. Willie, Indy, and Shorty stayed back.

The shaman knelt before the small altar, placed the Sankara Stone in its niche, chanted: “Om sivaya namah om . . .”

Indy and Willie walked away.

“You could’ve kept it,” she said to him.

“What for? They’d put it in a museum, where it’d be another rock collecting dust.”

“It would’ve gotten you your fortune and glory.”

Indy shrugged, then smiled slyly. “Well, it’s a long way to Delhi. Anything could still happen.”

She looked at him as if he were crazy. “Oh, no. No, thanks. No more adventures for me, Dr. Jones.”

“Sweetheart, after all the fun we’ve had . . .”

A big purple cloud began welling up inside her. What was he, nuts? They were alive—quite accidentally, she thought. Wasn’t that good enough for him? Fuming, frustrated ire rose in her craw.

“If you think I’d go with you to Delhi or anyplace else after all the trouble you’ve gotten me into, think again, buster,” she started, and then she got rolling. “I’m going home to Missouri, where they never ever feed you snake before ripping your heart out and lowering you into hot pits. This is not my idea of a swell time! No more Anything Goes! No more—”

She stopped before she started frothing; turned, walked toward a villager with a bundle on his back. “Excuse me, sir?” she called to him. “I need a guide to Delhi. I’m really very good on an elephant.” The whip cracked, wrapping around Willie’s waist. With a gentle insistence, Indy pulled her in to his arms.

She resisted only briefly. No use fighting karma: this clinch was meant to be since the second he’d walked into the club, and their eyes had closed the deal.

They kissed.

It was warm, glad, giving as a summer rain.

Water rained down on them in a brief, torrential shower. They separated, looked up. There was Short Round, sitting on the back of his baby elephant, which was spraying them gleefully with its trunk.

Short Round laughed. Indy and Willie laughed. The baby elephant laughed.

“Very funny,” said Short Round. “Very funny big joke.”

They did eventually all make it to America. But that is another story.

“The problem of the hero going to meet the father is to open his soul beyond terror to such a degree that he will be ripe to understand how the sickening and insane tragedies of his vast and ruthless cosmos are completely validated in the majestry of Being. The hero trancends life with its peculiar blind spot and for a moment rises to a glimpse of the source. He beholds the face of the father, understands—and the two are atoned.”

—J
OSEPH
C
AMPBELL
The Hero with a Thousand Faces

“One can easily imagine how I felt: suddenly to see in a modern city, during the noonday rush hour, a crusader coming toward me.”

—C
ARL
J
UNG
Memories, Dreams, Reflections

T
HE TROOP CHARGED
across the desert, their horses thundering beneath them, a cloud of dust billowing in their tracks. They rode hard and fast, as if to escape the sun, which had peaked over a barren mountain. It was already casting harsh beams of light across the arid landscape, and soon the desert would be baking.

Just ahead was a rock formation, and under it was a labyrinth of caves. The uniformed riders reined in their horses as they saw their commander raise a hand.

“Dis-mount,” he shouted.

A rider with a thatch of straw-colored hair was the first one off his mount. He glanced around at the troop members. From a distance, he thought, they probably looked like a company of army cavalry soldiers. Up close, he conceded, it was another matter. Even his best effort to imagine them as soldiers failed. It was pretty obvious they were just a scout troop. Except for Mr. Havelock, none of them was over thirteen.

He watched as a pudgy kid tottered away from his horse. He knew the kid’s name was Herman but didn’t know him well. He had heard a couple of the other kids say that Herman had trouble at home. He wasn’t sure what kind of trouble, but it was obvious that he was also having problems right here. He bent over, wobbled, and looked as if he was going to pitch forward onto his face. Finally he stopped, braced his hands on his knees, gagged, and vomited.

Everyone around him roared. They elbowed each other and pointed at the pathetic scout.

“Herman’s horsesick,” one of them yelled.

“Yeah, and he wet his saddle, too,” another howled gleefully.

The blond scout, whose uniform was dressed with a Hopi woven belt, walked up to Herman and asked if he was okay. There was a look of concern and understanding on his face and not a trace of ridicule. It was obvious that he was more mature than the others, and no one dared say a word as he led Herman away.

Mr. Havelock yelled for the boys to follow him with their horses. They led their mounts toward the rocks and left them in the shade of a massive boulder. The boys grouped around the scoutmaster as he explained that the original caves were natural formations and were the home of a primitive people. There was also a legend that Spanish conquistadores explored the caves, and it was well known that during the last century miners had opened new passages in their quest for gold. “Now, don’t anybody wander off. Some of the passages in here run on for miles.” As the troop fell into step behind their leader, the scouts mumbled under their breath. “This better be good,” one said.

“Yeah, the circus arrives today,” another murmured. “We could be watching them pitch the tents.”

They climbed a trail leading up the rocks. It was hot, dusty, and steep. Everyone was too caught up in the ascent to pay any attention to Herman or the blond kid who brought up the rear of the line.

A minute or so later they stepped inside the mouth of the cave. It was cool and dark, and the boys complained they couldn’t see. Mr. Havelock lit his lantern and assured the scouts their eyes would quickly adjust to the dim light. They continued on, following a well-traveled route.

Even though he was at the tail end, the blond scout was the most attentive of the troop. It almost seemed as if he were sensing what the place was like when it was inhabited by an ancient people. As the troop turned a corner, he suddenly gripped Herman by the arm.

“Ssh. Listen.”

Herman caught his breath. He glanced around uneasily, wondering what had caught his new friend’s attention.

Another trail branched off from the one they were on, and from deep within the dark passage they heard voices. They were faint, but distinct. The blond boy signaled Herman to follow him.

“Come on. Let’s take a look.”

Herman glanced back in the direction the troop had gone. He seemed uncertain about what he should do, then made up his mind and scrambled ahead.

“Okay, Junior, I’m coming.”

Spiderwebs tangled in their hair. The passageway was darker and cooler and obviously not well used. “Where are we going?” Herman called out.

The blond kid—Junior—turned, touched his index finger to his lips. The voices were louder now. The walls ahead were suddenly illuminated, and hulking, ghostly shadows danced across them. The two boys pressed against the wall. They held their breaths as they edged slowly forward.